


I have a disease that makes me cry thinking about old people in love, it's called being a fucking genius

by Random_ag



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Crushes, I Am Goyische So Please Tell Me If I Write Stuff That Is Wrong, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jewish Character, LGBTQ Jewish Character(s), M/M, Sweet, Trans Male Character, middle aged men in love make me go brrrrrrr, sammy goes apeshit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:21:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28339152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Random_ag/pseuds/Random_ag
Summary: Norman Polk happened to have a crush.Rather conveniently, Grant Cohen happened to have a crush too.
Relationships: Grant Cohen/Norman Polk
Comments: 18
Kudos: 16





	1. puzzle for two

Mr. Polk, the projectionist. A secretive man, he was. Tall, aging, greying hair. One blind eye obscured by a thick white veil. Still able to see everything and everyone from whatever hiding spot he’d made himself in the dark, should he had decided to. And he would, as he’d demonstrated more than enough times, delivering soft heart attacks left and right whenever he carefully made it clear he knew more than one would be comfortable letting be known.

But about himself, not a word. The most he’d spilled was that he had a daughter, and that had been all of it.

He would be vague when presented with questions. Short, quick answers were his favourites: they gave him a chance to say just enough without letting people into his life too much.

Although in recent times, he seemed to have become careless.

Careless, by Norman Polk standards, was barely below what the average person would consider ‘wary’. Careless was greeting the accountant everyday whenever he noticed he was around with a low tone that could have had the barest hint of friendliness. Careless was offering Mr. Cohen a cup of coffee when he saw him inching desperately towards the coffee machine. Careless was stealing glances at Grant - barely a second each, but still - when they were in the same room, when they passed each other in the hallway, when they acknowledged each other and kept going on their separate ways.

Careless was behaving like Norman always did, with a faintest bit of extra care.

Nobody noticed.

Nobody except… Well.

Nobody except Grant.

Grant had many things to take care of. Many numbers, specifically. Long, difficult numbers that could have gotten him killed if even just one of them was wrong. Numbers that made him want to hide underneath a thick cover and never get out under any circumstance until they were all gone and he could sleep instead of passing out into a black 5 hour coma, waking up at the same early morning time even on the one day he wasn’t supposed to care for those numbers.

Despite it all, he decided to take care of looking at Norman more.

Of figuring out the few among the projectionist’s well kept secrets that he seemed to be willing to share, in his own enigmatic and obscure way.

It helped a little, actually. Kept his mind off of the numbers - gave him a breather.

And Norman seemed to be… Collaborating. In a way.

Grant noticed he moved slightly slower around him, only partially shying away from the light he so despised. As if he was dropping small, elusive hints just for the accountant to pick up. Hints like an ancient bracelet that looked like it had been crafted by a six-year-old under the cuffs of a sleeve, or a minuscule old line of lighter skin between his neck and shoulder, or the familiar fringes of a tzitzit poking out from under his shirt, or a special glimmer - appearing suddenly and fast as lightning, easy to miss with the mere bat of an eye - coming from one of his hands.

It was a special little game for the two of them. Nobody else was aware of it.

A slow puzzle only for the accountant to solve, made of litte curiosities and characteristics the projectionist reserved just for him.

They never spoke, really.

Outside of polite greetings, giving checks at the end of the month, and that little game of theirs, they had never actually properly spoken to one another.

Grant noticed one afternoon, and didn’t manage to get his mind back on numbers afterwards.

He checked the clock; he’d missed his break as he was calculating taxes. Well, he reasoned as he stood up (his already sore back ached for sitting so long, and the binder surely did not help that) and made his way to the elevator, praying it would have come this time. He might as well use that lost time now that he couldn’t concentrate.

The second floor wasn’t as bustling with activity as it usually was - at leasty not in a “normal” way. There were musicians everywhere, but they were chatting, standing, sitting, joking, laughing. None of them paid attention to him, none of theme were playing or rehearsing a piece, and most importantly none of them were in the orchestra room. The accountant spotted a very recognizable hat as it was making its way through the noisy crowd in the direction of Sammy’s office.

He jogged after it, reaching for the shoulder attached to the bald head underneath it.

Jack turned, and his eyes widened in surprise: “Mr. Cohen! Didn’t expect to see you here. You said this floor gave you a headache. Not that I blame you, you know?” he smiled.

“I know, I know.” Grant replied, aware of the lyricist’s delicate ears, “I’m just on break and I thought I’d go a little higher in the levels. What’s going on, anyways?” he added, giving another look to their sorroundings.

The other man sighed and waved a hand dismissively, a relaxed smile on his face: “A little accident. The reel went crazy and Sammy got mad.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. Made everybody get out and moped angrily in his office for a while.”

“Your friend really needs to work on his temper sometime.”

“Like I haven’t said that before.” Jack chuckled. “Ah, I should go. He wants to still get some work done, and if I’m not there with him in thirty seconds his blood will boil so hard that the steam will make my poor eyebrows fall off.”

“Wait, just a moment.”

“Hm?”

“Who’s fixing the thing - it’s Mr. Polk, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is.”

“Hm. Thought so. Alright. Try to survive Mr. Lawrence’s wrath.”

The musician laughed a little louder, waving as he walked away.

Grant slipped between the mass of people, unseen, unheard, unnoticed, and into the orchestra room he went.

It was eerily silent. The door and walls might have not cancelled all the noise coming from outside perfectly, but the air was still and quiet beyond belief. There was only a soft sound - the sound of someone working on fixing a mechanism - coming from above his head.

The slight tap of his footsteps drowned in the silence as he climbed the stairs up to the projectionist’s booth.

Norman knew he was there. Grant was sure of that, even though the man’s attention was completely focused on the busted reel and the projector. Despite being blind in one eye, Norman always seemed to be able to see everything that happened to be in his close proximity, as if his ever present kippah had managed to replace the faulty orb.

They stood at opposite ends of the booth for a couple of minutes, without saying a single word.

“Mr. Cohen.”

“Mr. Polk.”

A beat of quiet.

“Hard work?”

First time I hear of a Polk in the comunity.

“Not too much. Just a busted reel.”

Should be like that. I converted.

“You’ve been at it for a while now, it seems.”

Why would you convert? It makes no sense. There’s no need to join a religion to show other people basic kindness.

“Just taking my time.”

I got interested. Invested. Really. Denise was Jewish. We’d talk about religion a lot, when we were younger. I converted to get closer.

You could get closer without having to follow all of our rules. That’s enough already.

I was young. Not doing really well all on my own. I needed a comunity, see. To be part of something.

Grant’s stare fell on the ring, gleaming softly on the projectionist’s left hand as it laid on the balustrade.

“That’s a lot of time. No offense, of course.”

Denise… It’s a lovely name. Like Jolene.

Norman looked at him in the eyes and gave a small smile.

“We all work at our own paces, I guess.”

I see we agree on that.


	2. ragtime rage

It was a gentle tap on the door frame that made Grant jump a little in his seat. When his eyes searched for the source of the sound he found his gaze immediately monopolized by the ghastly glare of a white-ish iris.

Norman twitched his finger towards himself a couple of times, signaling the accountant to follow him with a small, vague smirk.

Grant obliged.

Their fast yet silent steps rose all the way up the building until they were drowned by the heavy murmurs of the orchestra room as they climbed, unnoticed, the stairs leading up to Norman’s elevated booth, from which they could observe everything and everyone.

The accountant quirked an eyebrow.

What’s the matter?

The projectionist’s sly grin didn’t falter.

You’ll see soon enough.

There was a slam strong enough for the drum player to nearly fall over, and Sammy marched into the room looking positively wrathful. He slapped a bunch of paper on his music stand, yelled something too garbled to be understood by non musical folks and grabbed his baton so hard it seemed about to snap in two.

His arm raised, and when it fell the brass section cried out a loud succession of furious notes.

Then the orchestra followed.

Grant had never, ever seen such a spectacle. His eyes were a pair of tea saucers behind is small round glasses as he beheld Samuel Lawrence directing the band with motions that would have been much more fitting of a person suffering from the possession of a multitude of horrendous demons who enjoy arguing with one another too much than of an angry musician.

The music was fast-paced, frenzy, and mad as all hell, and Grant had to hold onto both the balustrade and his kippah or he was sure the notes would have blown him away. The baton harshly swung from left to right and right to left, up, down, up, down, up, down.

He found himself more entartained than he’d ever been.

Someone chose a horrible moment to get in - the accountant couldn’t see who it was, as Sammy lost no time and threw the baton at the intruder, who immediately retreated in understandable terror as the music director yelled: “GET THE FUCK OUT, WE’RE PLAYING A RAGTIME!” before resuming his job, his hand cutting the air without mercy.

It took four minutes for the song to end with an explosion of brass.

Sammy inhaled deeply, readjusted his hair as best as he could.

And with a gesture, he told the band to get the actual music sheet they were supposed to be playing.

Up in the projection booth, Grant turned to Norman. The older man was smiling wide, his deep wrinkles cutting shadows into his aging face.

So?

The accountant smiled back, almost a little breathless.

That was something, alright!


	3. shabbat

Grant looked around with a puzzled, furrowed brow. He didn’t want to be late - as if his already anxious nature wasn’t enough, his profession has unfortunately ingrained the saying ‘time is money’ into his brain and skull - especially when he was the guest, but he was truly, truly afraid he’d gotten lost.

His eyes catched a young black woman rapidly walking across the road with something in her arms to reach the sidewalk he was standing on, already half hopeless. Her steps were fast and festive, and as she moved her black curly hair bounced on her back similar to a domesticated cloud held down by a lustrous red bow.

“I, excuse me?” the accountant began as he approached her.

He quickly noticed how the gentle cut of her eyes crouched into a wary look, as she clearly (and understandably) did not trust him.

“I’m sorry,” she replied, shying away from him. “I’m gonna be late, my father-”

“I won’t bother you much, miss, I promise-” Grant continued, “I think- I was invited by a coworker, but I think I got lost- Norman Polk, his name is, do you know him?”

“Polk?”

“Yes, he’s a projectionist-”

“-At Joey Drew Studios, yes?”

One of her hands immediately freed itself to happily shake the accountant’s own as a smile irradiated her visage: “I’m Jolene! Jolene Polk! I knew we’d be having guests but not- I’m sorry, he didn’t describe you, I didn’t mean to be-”

“Oh, oh dear, don’t worry!” he reassured her immediately, grinning back at her - as he took a better look at her he could recognize in her dark iris the small glimmer glittering in her father’s sane eye, “You weren’t rude at all- I’m truly sorry for worrying you, but I had no idea…”

Jolene laughed: “Dad doesn’t say much, does he? Ah, he must really like you, you know?, to invite you over! He doesn’t really give too much confidence around, Mr., er-”

“-Cohen, Grant Cohen, Mrs. Polk.”

“Oh! Oh, please, Jolene’s fine.”

“Are you-?”

“Yes, yes, don’t worry! Come, we should go… Typical, didn’t even tell you the address, did he?”

“Oh, I, I think I just forgot… Actually, I’m not sure if I knew the civic number…”

“See? Ah, he was probably counting on me to help you. You know how he is, right?, only says what he wants and nothing else, and the problem’s when the things he wants to say are basically none! ‘Cos then it’s a big problem for everybody else to get something out of him or make him a gift or stuff like that, ‘cos he doesn’t say a thing or if he says it it’s in his silent way that nobody can understand if they’re not used to it…”

Her voice was lovely and fluid, a delight to listen to. Every word of hers was felted with a special kind of enthusiasm, and despite her hands being full Grant could notice her fingers jittering and twitching and dancing discreetly.

Everything about her behaviour sang that she was loved.

Her father opened the door for her and kissed her on the cheek. He turned to Grant, and the accountant noticed his gentle smile with a fast beating heart.

“Shalom.” Norman greeted him, inviting him in with a gesture.

“Shalom.” Grant replied.

He didn’t know what else to say.

They ate together, and it was delightful. It felt like the best lunch he’d ever had. Jolene somehow ended up on the topic of architecture and excitedly poured everything she knew about it on the table - she had a soft spot for buildings, for their size and scale and shape, for how it was even possible of them to hold themselves up the way they did, and for bridges! Bridges were even more amazing, how they could sustain incredible weights while suspended so high up, usually over currents of waters - this reminded her, she was learning some plumbing, or rather, she was improving her plumbing, since she’d started a while ago, when she still lived with her father, and he’d taught her how to handle electrical queries and problems as well…

Grant had a little trouble following such quick thinking and fast talking, but it didn’t bother him. He asked politely whenever he got lost in her stream of speech, something to which she enjoyed to remedy as fast as she could; Norman simply laid back in his chair, listening quietly as he sipped cold tea with a tranquil smile.

Grant had planned on leaving quickly, to disturb as little as possible.

But Jolene insisted he stayed. They had iced tea all together on the couch and talked some more about elecricity, about little tricks and experiments that Norman had taught her when she was little. She showed him some of them, explaining their inner workings as they watched them unfold. Norman watched his daughter teach the accountant with his silent smile; a picture of Denise - her wedding ring sat in front of it, and the light glinting softly on it seemed to murmur 'may her memory be a blessing’ - looked over them all with a grin so very similar to that of her husband.

Jolene began getting ready to leave when the sun had oh so slowly started to leave the horizon and the shadows where getting longer and longer. The realization of how the hours had flown away with the lightness of swallows when winter approaches slammed Grant in the back of the head with the horrendous force of a lightning bolt as she gave him a light hug right before disappearing behind the door.

The accountant stood up in a panic, quickly going to collect his jacket and what little he had brought with himself.

“I’m - I should be going, it’s getting late -”

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m overstaying my welcome, I’m sorry-

Norman’s hand grabbed his arm very gently, stopping his nearly feverish jittering.

“Are you sure you don’t want another glass of tea?”

Honestly, it seems to me like you’re _under_ staying your welcome.

Grant blinked twice behind his small round glasses. The projectionist just smiled.

Are… Are you sure I’m not bothering you?

Absolutely positive.

Absolutely?

I promise you.

“I… I would like that, yes. Yes, if it’s…”

“It’s no problem at all. Come.”

The jacket was left to lay on the armchair as they fetched their empty glasses from the coffee table and walked into the kitchen quietly, together.

You don’t have much family around here?

Pardon?

I’m sorry. I thought -

No, no, it’s alright. My cousin moved here with me, but he’s gone back home some years back, so…

You don’t have any children either, I take it.

I… I mean, I tried once, but I got too anxious all of a sudden and I… I ruined it.

A hand gently rubbed Grant’s back. He released the back of the chair from his tightening grip as he deflated slightly.

We couldn’t really make it work after that, you understand. And I can’t try anymore now.

Norman poured the tea in the accountant’s glass, moving to hold his shoulder in the most reassuring way he could.

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make bad memories resurface.

It’s ok.

Are you sure?

I am.

They waited a moment more in the kitchen in silence. Genuine silence, free of subtext. Once Grant could hold his glass without his hands trembling, Norman helped him back to the living room.

I can’t try again either, if it helps.

I thought you weren’t…?

Oh, it’s not me. Just, a partner around my age would be in your situation too.

Oh, I see.

And to be fair, a gap of twenty-five years between two siblings would be quite a lot.

You never thought of re-marrying?

Oh, I did! A lot of times! But I always got distracted and forgot, and suddenly Jolene is a young lady and I’m an old bag of bones.

Norman helped Grant sit down across from him, both nursing their drinks.

Don’t worry though, she wasn’t lonely. She had ninety-six cousins to play with.

Ninety-six?

Yes, why? How many do _you_ have?

Two hundred and fifteen.

The projectionist gave an incredulous laugh.

Two hundred and fifteen!

What? That happens when each parent has about ten siblings.

That ain’t fair, I was an only child!

It was the accountant’s turn to laugh.

I don’t know what to tell you!

They cackled to themselves for a couple minutes, both glasses of tea left to sit on the table lest they drank too hastily and it got stuck in their throats to be spluttered with strangled chuckles. Once he had recollected himself, Norman took a deep breath.

“Just to make sure you know,” he said, the ghost of his amusement still in his voice, “I am very serious about this.”

Grant froze, eyes widened.

“I don’t know how Jolene might take it, and I’m not sure if we could ever get married - but I can assure you I’m serious about this. About us.”

Grant’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again, as he nodded quietly.

“I… I am very serious about - about us, too.” he assured the projectionist. “Very much.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“I didn’t doubt you, either.”

“So.” Norman smiled. “Are we dating?”

“… Are we?” asked the accountant.

“I am asking you.”

“I… I mean, I’d like it if, if we were.”

“I’d like it too.”

They waited in silence.

“Then… Then we are.” concluded Grant. “We are dating. From now.”

Norman grinned a little wider and laid back on the couch, finally taking a sip of not-so-iced-anymore tea. He waited for Grant to loosen up as well, and just as the other man started drinking he simply said: “You are a _dashing_ man, Mr. Cohen.”

Grant choked on the beverage.

“Mr. Polk!” he gargled outraged as his face grew redder and redder, “You can’t just _say_ things to me - it’s been more than twenty years since I’ve dated someone, I need a moment to adjust!”

“Tell you what-”

“Hold on-”

“-I’ve got half a mind to kiss you.”

The way the accountant flailed his arms with increasingly panicked motions made him snort while he stood up to approach the armchair occupied by the shorter man.

“Give me a moment!”

“Alright, take your time.”

“… Ok, I’m ready. Go ahead.”

“That was quick.”

“You’re the one who didn’t waste a single second before starting to flirt!”

“Actually, I waited for you to start drinking.” Norman admitted as he kneeled in front of Grant, chuckling at the soft outraged gasp his confession elicited, unaccompanied by a: “Oh, you absolute menace to society…”

The projectionist’s dark lips pressed on much paler ones with a chaste kiss made scratchy by the bristly curls of his beard; the accountant leaned into him sweetly before pulling away with a laugh, a hand caressing the coarse hair along Norman’s jaw.

“Oh God, it tickles!” he cackled, giddily pressing his forehead against Norman’s, “I’m not used to this anymore…”

The other hummed: “We should practice a little more, then.” he replied so lovingly simply, and kissed Grant again.

* * *

Grant opened his eyes.

It took a moment to read the time, as his glasses sat right next to the clock.

Five AM.

He sighed and began to sit up.

A pair of dark arms wrapped a little tighter around his waist, making the fabric of his pijamas rustle.

“ ’s too early, ahavoti…” Norman grumbled sleepily as he rubbed his face against him.

They waited for a moment in silence, fully clothed, at least six hours before Jolene would arrive for lunch.

Then Grant laid back down next to Norman, embracing him and kissing him on the mouth, and for the first time in many, many saturdays, he went back to sleep.


End file.
